The Mark of Gideon
by Nalbal
Summary: Young Fíli, the lion child of Durin's folk, shines ever golden—but behind those dazzling smiles are pent-up tears of frustration. Nobody said it was easy to be raised as a warrior and crown prince to a distant throne, but nobody told Fíli the growing pains would be this hard. It means change, loss, and leaving treasures behind… even little brothers.
1. Chapter I

_**A/N: **__Greetings, friends. For those of you who have been following my writing since the release of __**The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey**__, welcome back. For you newcomers, hello and welcome!_

_As promised to my loyal fans, I present to you a Fíli-centered story. I've had a complete 15 page outline for this story sitting on my computer for 8 months now... FINALLY I get to bring it to life (with much thanks to my friend Italian Hobbit, for bullying me and helping me get two-thirds of this written in a single day)! My architecture major has just kept me far too busy to write. I managed to do a bit of dabbling in my spare time on Thanksgiving break (when I was too dead to concentrate on anything), and I polished a couple super-short chapters for an equally short Fíli/Kíli series, published under the name _**'Grab My Hand'** _… A couple chapters have been posted, so take a peek!_

_For those who have happened to have read my story _**'A Private Little War'**, _this takes place about five years later. Fíli and Kíli are now the dwarven equivalent of human adolescents aged __**16 and 14 years old**__; their 'actual' ages are __25 and 20__ years old. As usual, when I refer to ages in-text I shall refer to their 'actual' ages (for an explanation of my age-conversion system, please check my profile)._

_Ladies and gentlemen, I now present to you __**'**_**The Mark of Gideon'**.

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Gid**·**e**·**on **/ˈgidēən/** • **_Destroyer, Feller,__** Mighty Warrior**_

* * *

**Chapter I**

* * *

"_**Some are born great,**_

_**some achieve greatness,**_

_**and some have greatness thrust upon them."**_

– _William Shakespeare, __"Twelfth Night"_

* * *

Maybe now they'll stop comparing me to a peach.

That's what everyone called me for a while—my friends, and even my own mother: Peach. They teased me about the rough golden fuzz on my face, though nothing unkind was meant by it, of course. Some of the older lads took to saying things that were rather less than proper, making dubious references to my being ripe for the picking by the young dwarrow-dams, and other similar comments. I had the good grace to blush and I bore all else patiently, waiting for my silly stubble to grow.

When the little prickles first appeared I am not certain who was more excited: me or my little brother. He was the first to make the prodigious discovery. It had happened literally overnight, the small hairs liberally appearing beneath my nose and on my chin; I opened my eyes in the morning to Kíli shrieking with childish delight and poking at my face in a most undignified fashion. When I roughly shoved him off my bed and hastily stumbled to our dresser mirror he dashed off, seeking out Mum and Uncle Thorin and babbling to them excitedly. The fuss he made was rather silly, and the way our mother blithely snatched my face for a closer look was more than a little embarrassing. Uncle Thorin had simply smiled, but I could tell from the sparkle in his eye that he was quite pleased. In truth there was little to see—there was but so little fuzz—and as a result I gruffly brushed it off as an occurrence hardly worth noting. Unlike Kíli I was not going to bounce around the house like a rogue jumping bean; I accepted the welcome occurrence with a little smile and a nod, accepting Mum's and Uncle's congratulations with mild enthusiasm. Little did anyone know that I later sat alone in the broom closet with a candle and Mother's hand mirror, gleefully running my fingers over my face and snickering to myself like an idiot. _Finally, I'm beginning to look like a grownup!_

That was almost two years ago. Now the infantile peach fuzz is but a distant memory, real hair now in its place. It'll be a long time before I can braid my mustache and even longer before I can comb a nice long beard, but I have a mustache and beard nonetheless. They are quite small things, clearly the facial hair of a young dwarf and not an adult, _but they are there nonetheless— _I am no longer a bare-faced child. Thank Mahal and all the other omnipotent beings of this world that I am finally past that dreadful stage.

I stand in front of the mirror now, meticulously combing my mustache with a tiny brush. It really is but pointless preening because my facial hair is so short, yet it pleases me to do it anyway. I purse my lips as I attempt to get one small lick of hair to lay just right. My little brother is sitting on his bed with one leg tucked beneath him, the other swinging carelessly over the footboard, and he watches my morning routine with keen interest. I pretend not to notice his revering gaze but secretly enjoy his youthful admiration.

"It looks fine to me, Fíli," he eventually chirps.

I chuckle. "'Course it does. Everything looks fine to you. Thankfully this is on _my _face and I am accustomed to investing some care in my appearance."

From my view in the mirror I can see the familiar, pouting expression brush lightly over Kíli's face. "I care about how I look," he mutters, feigning hurt.

Chuckling some more I temporarily ignore him as I try to tame a few stray hairs on my beard. Soon enough my brother pipes up again.

"Really, you look good," he says with more seriousness. "I mean it." He kicks the footboard idly. "I can't wait for _my_ beard to grow in." His voice carries the smallest hint of envy.

I glance at him through the mirror, catching him as he ruefully strokes his smooth chin. My little brother and I look more different than we ever have before: where I am developing evenly into a thicker, more adult frame, he's all legs and arms, lanky and awkward. My muscles are hardening and I'm filling out nicely; he's awfully slim, just as he has always been, but his growing body is more disproportionate than ever. My golden hair is always wild and unruly in its natural state, as is Kíli's, but mine is thick, coarse, and easy to braid. Kíli's hair is thick and wavy, but its texture is comparable to corn silk, braids slipping apart and refusing to stay put. I blink now, pleasantly surprised as I notice that his hair is actually braided today, and quite nicely too, though it appears one of the delicate plaits is already threatening to come loose. Kíli puffs a strand of hair out of his eyes, interrupting my thoughts when he speaks again.

"I look like a baby next to you," he complains lightly, "With this dreadfully bare face of mine."

I put my brush down and wriggle my nose a bit, examining my face from several angles. "You'll just have to be patient, squirrel. It'll come, but you've got a few years yet."

Kíli sighs long-sufferingly, a wry smile on his face. "Don't remind me. It's bad enough that you're so much taller than me—again! It's just plain unfair," he whines, his youthful voice cracking awkwardly for the umpteenth time.

I grin at him through the mirror. It does seem rather unfair to my young brother. Poor Kíli; after an entire life of being significantly shorter than me he slowly but surely caught up to my height, only to be left behind when I suddenly had a major growth spurt. Over the course of several months I grew quite a number of inches: I now stand at my uncle's shoulder and a whole head taller than my unfortunate brother. This renewed height difference between us aggravates him to no end but I can't help admitting it rather amuses me.

"I _am_ your big brother, after all," I remind him teasingly.

"You're only five years older," he retorts with amusement, "Hardly that far ahead of me. And just you wait," he says, waving his finger at me before launching his age-old threat, "Someday I am going to be taller than you, and everyone will think that_ I _am the elder brother."

"Kíli," I guffaw, "Even if you were as tall an eight-foot beanstalk nobody would ever make that mistake." My little brother splutters indignantly as I continue with a tone of mock superiority. "It takes more than mere height to distinguish a dwarf. It takes a certain measure of… poise, and majesty—" I rise slowly out of my chair and regard my reflection with a grim smirk; "—and no small degree of charm."

"Well, guess that rules you out, then," snickers Kíli impudently.

"What was that?" I cry laughingly, rounding on him suddenly. Grinning evilly I loom over him and trap him in place before he can scramble out of the way and to safety.

"I said it rules you out, you puffed-up old rooster!" he crows with delight, even as he tries to wriggle away. He knows he has just sealed his fate.

"Puffed up? _Old_?" I bellow. "I'll show you a thing or two, you smart-mouthed whippersnapper!" With that I gleefully begin an aggressive tickle assault that quickly turns Kíli's squeak of fear into shrieks of laughter. This continues for several minutes, even when Kíli's relentless squirming and flailing sends us both rolling onto the floor. Though he puts up quite a fight I am still larger and much stronger than he; Kíli is all but screaming for mercy when our glorious battle is interrupted.

"By Durin's beard, what on earth is this racket?" Mother blusters into the room and stands over us with her hands placed on her stout hips. "Fíli! Kíli! Get your sorry selves off that dirty floor this _instant_ or Mahal help me, I swear I'll. . ."

By the third word of her motherly tirade Kíli and I are already scrambling to our feet and straightening our rumpled clothing, smiling sheepishly. She strides over and spins me around, vigorously dusting off my back and adjusting my collar before attending to Kíli. Her long-strung tirade is mostly lost on us but we offer apologetic mumbles and demure smiles at all the right places.

". . . and wearing your _blue jerkins_ too," she continues, grumbling fiercely. "Your royal clothes! I thought you two knew better but it seems I was wrong. On such an important day, too—oh, _boys— _honestly!"

I chuckle, knowing that she is not really cross with us. "Cheer up, Mother; these things wear like iron. Anyway, you habitually scrub our floor within an inch of its life," I soothe with my normal silver-tongued efficiency, "And I'm sure a bit of straw or dust bunnies will not harm such versatile material."

"There are _no_ 'dust bunnies' in _my _halls," she mutters, pausing long enough to glare at me from over my brother's head. She continues to fuss over the rich fabric. "Like iron, indeed."

"Quite so, Mum!" Kíli pipes up, a gleam suddenly entering his brown eyes. He smiles innocently. "Uncle Thorin once told me that _your_ blue clothes survived well enough, even after you went rolling around in a muddy pig pen before a royal event."

I am unable to suppress my guffaw of surprise, and our mother's expression is priceless to behold. Her eyes widen and narrow several times in quick succession while she splutters, her cheeks flushing momentarily. Kíli takes one look at me and it's all he needs to descend into a fit of giggles.

"Of all the impertinence!" Mother sounds severe but there is a distinct trace of humor in her voice. Her hand descends swiftly to the seat of my brother's trousers and he yelps, springing immediately out of her reach before he starts chortling in amusement. She places her hands on her hips and sends Kíli an imposing glare, even as I cover my grin with my hand. "It may interest you to know, young man," she declares, "That I was a dwarfling of four years, not twenty. _I _didn't know any better. You, on the other hand… Oh, what's the use? Shoo." She takes a few steps toward him and waves her hands at him dismissively, "Shoo. Out. Let me fuss over your brother. Out, I say." As Kíli scurries out of the room she turns to me, catching my grin before I can swallow it. She shakes her head. "It seems I must have a talk with that brother of mine concerning his choice of stories," she declares dryly, "The big oaf."

I clear my throat. "And yet you always wonder," I solemnly say, "Where Kíli and I got our mischievous streaks."

Mother fixes me with a steely stare before she begins chuckling softly. "Indeed."

Smiling at her, I wordlessly take the chair in front of the mirror as she picks up a comb and starts running it through my hair. Normally I fix my own hair—or let Kíli do it, because the little rascal loves braiding everyone's hair but his own—but since this is a special occasion my mother prefers to do it herself. I sit patiently as she runs her fingers through the shining strands, parting off sections and weaving delicate plaits with both speed and ease.

"How are you feeling, my lion?" she eventually asks.

The butterflies flair up again and I sigh slowly, deeply. "Fine," I answer honestly. "I'm a tad nervous, but not much. I know what's expected and what I'm to say, and I'll say it, so it's not a big deal, really." I look up at her through the mirror and give her a rather cocky grin. "I've got this covered."

"'Not a big deal,' my eye," she tuts, raising an eyebrow at me. "Reciting twenty passages of ancient Khuzdul is hardly an easy task—and it's an _important_ part of the ritual, nothing to shake a finger at."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I laugh softly. "I know, Mum, I know."

Today is the festival of the Summer Solstice, one of the most important days on the dwarven calendar. Just as Men attach sentimental value to the first day of spring, so do Dwarves treasure the first day of summer. Of course we welcome spring, for spring means the end of winter, the end of the earth's sleep and its bitter cold, frost, and deep snows. It means the earth softens and the first seeds may be sown. However, spring also means storms and rain, making our halls in the mountains damp, humid, and uncomfortable; traditionally, it is not as celebrated a time. By culture, dwarves are not tillers of the earth—we are miners—but exile from Erebor has forced my people to become more self-sufficient in that area. Since we can no longer remain holed up in our stone halls and must grow our own food, my people are more aware of and thankful for the coming spring. Still, by age-old tradition, the arrival of summer is what we hold most dear. Summer means that our stone halls are blissfully comfortable, constantly teetering between sweetly cool and restfully warm. It is the only time of the year that we don't have to keep the fires burning. The days are longer; stronger sunlight filters through our light wells and fills our homes. It is a happy time for our race. Thus, the summer solstice—the day that has the longest period of sunlight all year round—is seen as a sacred day, and it is celebrated with a special festival.

Like any festival there are endless activities and fun events for young and old alike, but the festival of the summer solstice is also heavy-laden with religious symbolism, rituals, prayers, and so forth. There is one ceremony of particular importance, however: the final ceremony of the day. It is traditionally led by a lead citizen or political figure, and the first half begins with a series of short rituals directed first to Eru,thanking him for his pity and mercy on the Dwarves, and then to Mahal—Aulë the Smith—for creating us. It is very solemn, deep, and sometimes long-winded as such things tend to be, but it is all considered sacred and must not be taken lightly.

The second half of the ceremony demands the participation of two brothers from the community that have not yet come of age. Together they perform a libation and an additional ritual while reciting a short traditional prayer to the gods, praising them and asking Mahal for his continued favor and protection of our people. Afterwards, the younger brother must stand silently with a lit torch of fragrant agar wood—a rare strain of tree grown specifically for this purpose—that represents the first smith fires stoked by the dwarves. Meanwhile, the elder recites a complicated series of religious passages in the ancient tongue, the conclusion of which also marks the conclusion of the ceremony and the festival rituals. The dwarflings are selected for this ceremony at random, and while they may honorably decline the offer no one ever has, for their participation is seen as a great honor to their family. Once they agree, they are bound to perform the ceremony for ten consecutive years, after which time the position is passed on.

Mother was absolutely thrilled when the scented note arrived one day, announcing my and Kíli's selection for the role. Uncle, too, was simply bursting with pride. I had mixed feelings about the whole ordeal but Kíli positively whooped with excitement upon hearing the news. His enthusiasm kept me going when we were subjected to relentless practices of the ceremony and drilling of the verses. At first, Kíli was rather envious that I was to have the more prestigious role in the ceremony. As soon as Balin opened the well-worn book of Khuzdul prayers, however, and showed us the intimidating lengths of passages I was expected to memorize, my little brother was immediately content with his lot. For weeks I studied and gradually memorized the tricky Khuzdul verses, rolling my tongue around the heavy words, reciting line after line until I was sure I knew them backwards and forwards in my sleep. The ancient text is so different from the Khuzdul I know, there are entire sections I don't understand from memory—and Kíli can barely translate any of it—but all that matters is that I know the words by heart.

"I know you'll do splendidly," Mother says presently, sounding cheerful and very happy. "There." She attaches the last hair clasp and then pats my head shoulder fondly, looking into the mirror and observing my pleased reaction. "All finished."

"Thank you. T'is very nice, Mum."

She smiles warmly, watching as I turn my head one way and another to get a better look at her handiwork. With a slow, deep sigh, she places her hands on my shoulders and squeezes them slightly. "You look more and more like your father with the passing years. Sometimes…" A soft look of pain pulls at the corners of her mouth. "… There are times I look into that face of yours and it's as though Jóli was staring back at me. Then I see those blue Durin eyes, and I blink, and once again I just see my bright Fíli—" Mother pats my shoulders as the sadness evidently fades, "—Just as it should be."

The familiar twinge of sadness echoes in my chest, and I find myself swallowing the familiar lump that has surreptitiously settled in my throat.

"Do you… do you think he's proud of me?" I ask timidly.

"Oh, Fíli." She bends down and kisses me on my forehead. "Of course he is. I _know _he is." She strokes the side of my face gently as she continues to look at me through the mirror. "You're everything he had ever dreamed of and hoped for. You're an accomplished lad, upright and good-hearted with a good head on your shoulders. That's all he could've asked for and you've far exceeded his expectations."

I smile weakly at her words, fingering the chain links of the necklace hidden beneath my tunic. It is a while before I can speak again. "He would've loved to be there today, wouldn't he?"

Mother runs her fingers gently through the unbraided portions of my hair as she blinks rapidly. "Yes. Yes, he would have," she murmurs. "More than anything."

* * *

It's a cacophony of the senses, this festival. There are hundreds of smells—sweet spices, sharp spices, cheeses, pastries, all manners of ale and pipe tobacco—and just as many sounds—flutes and lutes, recorders and fiddles, children's cries and squeals of delight. The visual noise is incredible as well: bright, colorful streamers strung up at every tree, post, and stand, whipping and flapping in the warm breeze; dwarrow-dams in their best dresses, ribbons and bows in their hair, the few bright jewels they own adorning their necks, wrists, and fingers; dwarf men looking the most well-groomed they've been in a year, with clean clothes and beards combed and braided to their finest. Feminine giggles and titters filter through deep throated guffaws and belly laughs. Perfume and cologne rises in the air in a cloud of clashing scents and the little ones sneeze and wrinkle their noses with distaste. Through this crowd Kíli and I run, dodging chatty mothers and slipping around wide-girthed elders and tripping over the occasional small child. We earn ourselves a few remonstrative glares and clucking tongues for our trouble, but mostly good-natured smiles and chuckles. Kíli dashes ever ahead of me and it's all I can do to keep him in my sight through the crowd; Mother told me specifically to keep an eye on him, to keep him out of trouble until the ceremony later that evening. With Kíli's boisterous nature and odd sense of luck, he would surely find a mud puddle on even a dry day as this and soil his clothes, or fall into a lone rabbit hole and break his ankle. That thought in mind, I hasten to keep up with him.

I manage to grab him by the elbow and redirect him from his blithesome gallop to a weapons' stall. It's a regular gallery of all manner of arms, with swords, war hammers, and armor from times gone by; it's not meant for purchase, but for display. A dense gathering of admiring men blocks our view, but dragging my brother along behind me I manage to skillfully squeeze my way towards the front.

"Egad!" Kíli exclaims softly, "What a collection! It's even grander than last year's."

"Quite so," I marvel, gazing softly upon each weapon in turn. Kíli and I look on quietly, saying nothing, until I find myself reaching out to reverently touch one of the sword hilts. It is wholly encrusted with more jewels than I can name—startling rubies and glowing amber, sparkling garnets, tracings of gold and sharp glints of diamond are just some of the precious stones that glitter on the weapon.

"And that's just the hilt," Kíli breathes in awe. "Look at the sheath. It's inlaid with spessartite garnets and sphenes."

"Close, but not garnets, Brother," I correct him, whispering with veneration. "Those are sphalerites. Look at the shape and dispersion." The spharelite gem looks like a living flame trapped within a capsule, glowing and radiating, while a sphene is yellow or yellowish-green in color with an intensive fire-like glare. The theme of this sword and its sheath is clear: with its gold, yellow, and red gems, it is obviously a weapon of flame.

"You know your precious stones well, young Master Fíli," inserts a voice. "You do our people proud." Kíli and both turn as one at the approach of the newcomer.

"I have excellent tutors, Sir," I respond with appropriate modesty, inclining my head in a gesture of thanks as I mentally scrabble for the stout, elderly dwarf's name.

"This is an amazing collection, Mister Noran," Kíli chirps enthusiastically. I mentally thank him for his superior ability at remembering the names of people over stones. "We've noticed that you've got new weapons this year. Where have they come from?"

"Oh, laddie, all over," Noran replies, an amused smile spreading across his grey-whiskered face. "Some are from my extended family across the mountains, others—well, like this one; let me show you…"

As Kíli follows the elder aside and become engrossed his tale, a particularly aggravating scent of perfume enters my nostrils and my heart immediately clenches with dread. _Oh for goodness sake not today, not now, Mahal please not now I'm supposed to be relaxing._

"Yoo-hoo, Fíli!" a shrill voice erupts suddenly. The sound of it sends shivers down my spine. "Why, fancy my bumping into you!"

Sighing, I plaster on the most polite smile I can muster before turning around to face my formidable foe. What meets my eyes is a sight that would possibly rival the ferocity of Smaug himself: women.

I attempt to sound pleasantly surprised and not incredibly annoyed. "Hello, Lacla. Yes, fancy meeting you here on a day such as this."

Clasping my hands gravely behind my back, I try not to quaver as the somewhat plump dwarrow-girl approaches, her black curls bouncing around her heart-shaped face. Her colored lips spread into an intimidating, flirtatious smile as she aggressively waves a small fan by her powdered nose. Her makeup is quite overdone, and she is dressed with rather inappropriate extravagance for her age. A dwarrow-girl in her mere twenties is still viewed as a child and should be dressed more plainly, upgrading to a higher class of style when she reaches her late thirties. Lacla is but twenty-three but she carries on like a grown young lady of forty-six; I blame her overly ambitious mother.

"I haven't seen you in a long while, Fíli," she begins, her face descending into a poor attempt at an adorable pout. Too bad she doesn't know that my brother has her beat by years of superior experience. "We ought to talk more often."

"Ah… Mm-hm," I reply, non-committal. Stealthily, I scan the area for an avenue of escape, but notice with dread that some of Lacla's friends have accompanied her and now look on from a few feet away, effectively blocking any route of hasty departure.

She bats her excessively-painted eyelashes. "There's to be dancing later this eve, and I shall be in need of a partner."

"I am sure," I answer carefully, "That you shall have no trouble finding an appropriate candidate." _Victim _is the word I would have preferred to use.

Lacla blinks, smiles brightly, and starts giggling in a manner I find most distressing. Then, before so much as a _by your leave_ I find myself surrounded and all but carried off by the chattering flock of girls, who are all as interested as my current predator but none daring to intrude on her choice of prey. I find it all impossibly annoying, yet my strict upbringing prevents me from being anything but well-mannered and agreeable. Unfortunately, it seems that too many of the females in these parts take my kind civility for closeted flirtation; too bad for them that I'm not the least bit interested. I find that this is most definitely one of the negative results of my growing older; more than ever I find myself being the target of seemingly every single dwarf lass who is within five or ten years of my age. They practically throw themselves in my path, begging to be noticed by the golden-haired, lion princeling of Durin. My uncle is amused, my mother is delighted, but I find the unwanted attention rather frustrating.

I converse with them for as short of a time as I can without being perceived as rude, then excuse myself and practically hurtle myself into the sanctuary of the crowd once more. When I return to the weapons' stall I see that Kíli is no longer there and I begin an extensive search. I needn't look far, however, for he is at the corral set up in the auction area. He sits on the wooden rail, eyes riveted on the large herd of ponies roaming about, waiting to be bought.

"Thanks for abandoning me," I grumble good-naturedly as I sidle up beside him.

"You're welcome," he retorts, glancing down at me for but a moment. He wrinkles his nose with disgust. "I can't stand 'em dames. Do they even know how ridiculous they look when they're fawning all over you?" He sticks his tongue out and points to his open mouth, making me snigger.

I gesture to the circling animals beyond. "Admiring the scenery, are we?"

"Gosh, yes." He sighs wistfully. "I wish I had my own pony. Old Biscuit is getting on in years and I can't ride her too hard." A particularly striking pony with white socks and a black mane trots by and Kíli follows its every move with his eyes. "How I would love to go racing with the lads."

"Oh no—" I burst out laughing as a memory surfaces, "—No more racing for you, Brother. Remember the last time you attempted such a venture?"

Kíli quickly looks elsewhere. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbles, but his cheeks flush with obvious recollection.

I grin at him wickedly. "Sure you do. Remember, seven years ago? You were thirteen winters then. You stole a Man's horse in town on a dare, partook in a race—"

"Borrowed, not stole," he interrupts in dismal protest.

"—and got arrested when you tried to surreptitiously return the creature to the livery. Uncle had to leave work to come and rescue you, and once he dragged you home he whaled you within an inch of your life, as I recall correctly," I chortle.

"That was a _long_ time ago," Kíli mumbles, his face turning an impressive shade of pink. "I was pretty dumb back then."

"As compared to now?" I playfully needle.

"What is this, Pick-On-Kíli Day?" my little brother finally snaps, jumping off the rail before pinching me none-to-gently. I slap his hand away and he smiles, my offense obviously forgiven. "C'mon," he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me along, "Let's see what else there is to see."

We spend the afternoon pleasantly enough, scampering about from one stall to another and taking part in a wide range of activities. Kíli behaves himself and I'm able to experience some mental calm. Occasionally I mutter sections of the Khuzdul passages under my breath like a song, to keep it fresh, and Kíli offers me a sympathetic smile when he notices. The day wanes, the sun begins to shine its dying light, and Kíli and I take a few minutes to dart into an empty booth and rehearse our lines one last time. We go through the motions of the libation, I recite my passages in rapid whispers, and we both nod at one another in approval as the first drums begin to sound. We raise our heads as one with a small gasp.

"It's time," I hiss, grabbing his arm. "Hurry."

We emerge from the empty booth to see that the sun is slowly setting, rich purples and oranges filling the sky, and a change has come over the crowd. Dwarves who were boisterous and cheerful now grow quiet and somber; some of the men begin to hum under their breaths, deep-throated sounds that murmur in tune with the drums steadily beating out the ritualistic summons. The people move in shuffling herds toward the main square and Kíli and I anxiously hurry along. Desperate for speed, we squeeze out from the mob and clamber onto the short stone walls that follow our path, scampering and scrambling along atop them in an effort to bypass the heavy foot traffic. Bits of dirt and pebbles slide from beneath our moving feet and sprinkle onto some passersby below. There are a few gasps and grumbles but we take no notice as we race along, unwilling to be late to our first major community performance.

We arrive just in time.

"Where have you two been?" Uncle growls with obvious annoyance. "You're almost late."

"'Almost'" being the key word, Thorin," Dís soothes him, bright-eyed with excitement. "They're here, now."

"Sorry Uncle," Kíli pants, hardly noticing as Mother straightens his tunic collar and smooths his hair, "It is _such_ a large crowd, and we had trouble getting through—"

"Well, never mind," Uncle interrupts, looking about him in a distracted manner. "You'd better go sit down. And both of you—" He looks back and grips both of us by the shoulder with a stern expression, "Behave yourselves. This is a big deal."

Kíli and I glance at one another and nod at our guardian. "Yes, Sir; we know," we reply in unison.

Thorin nods tersely. "Good. Alright, then; go."

There is a large stage set up in the square, an elevated platform with a series of stairs snaking up to its top. The crowd gathers in front and partially around the stage, holding their breaths expectantly as the drummer continues to sound out the call. Uncle Thorin and Mister Balin are among the handful of elders and community leaders who are leading the ceremony, and they now make their slow ascent to the stage with two others to begin the opening prayers. My little brother and I have a while to wait before we are to take part, so we must sit in a designated area with the other awaiting participants. Moments pass, and soon Balin turns to the crowd, raises his hands high in the air, and the drums abruptly silence. There is a pregnant pause as one of the elders begins a high, melodious chant in Khuzdul, incense filling the air…

My mind begins to buzz and my focus on the scene before me slips, falls away.

"Are you alright?" Kíli suddenly whispers in my ear, jolting me back to the present. I nod my head mutely in reply, and Kíli tugs my elbow. I turn to look at him. "You're looking a little pale, Big Brother," he tells me with concern.

I smile shakily at him. "I-I'll be fine. It's just these last-minute jitters, is all. Silly thing, really."

He squeezes my arm. "Hey. You'll do great."

"We both will," I mutter with a wink, elbowing him gently. "Don't forget you have to say something, too."

He laughs quietly. "All of three lines; that's easy, even for me."

"Don't screw up, then," I tease, "Or you'll go down in history as the dwarfling who messed up the easiest role in the Summer Solstice Festival."

"Boy, that's what I get for trying to be nice to you," he grumbles, but his bright grin betrays him.

"Shhh, laddies," a voice behind us hushes. I turn my head and see a well-dressed dwarf—a merchant named Dori, I believe—looking at us with mixed amusement and disapproval. "You must pay attention."

I nod to him and smile apologetically before glancing at Kíli and rolling my eyes. My little brother quickly leans forward and breaths the word "Busybody" in my ear before settling back in his seat with a satisfied smirk.

The ceremony goes on in a hazy, noisy blur. I'm normally not one to daydream at a time when paying attention is so strictly required, but the more I sit there the more butterflies join the party of dread being hosted in my gut. I hadn't been all that nervous to begin with, not really; but as the mystical chants and long-winded prayers fill my ears and float about my head my discomfort grows. I have known and understood _intellectually _for weeks what a "big deal" this is, as Uncle had said, but only now can I fully, _emotionally _comprehend the sheer magnitude of the role I am to play. Mine is the final part in this entire assemblage; my words are the final words spoken; my prayer the last to be heard by the gods. In summary, my performance will be the one last remembered. Only now do I realize how much responsibility has fallen to me, and all this time I had treated it as just another big task that I was expected to do well. Only now do I realize. . . well, everything.

This is also the first time that Kíli and I are participating in any major event alongside our uncle; an event of such magnitude that concerns the community as a whole. A deeper understanding settles within me; this, then, is why Uncle Thorin seemed nervous. Kíli and I are on parade. We are under public scrutiny: 'how well have those two scruffy rapscallions done under Thorin's guardianship?', everyone is wondering. 'Are they fit for a finer future, fit to be leaders? Do they have poise, breeding? Come, let us see our princely specimens; put them on the auction block of The People, and let us see if they have meat on their bones and a glint in their eyes; let us see if they are worthy of our praise or ridicule'. I find myself wondering if we were truly picked at random as is tradition, or if someone had an extra hand in our selection. The odds of it being the latter seem startlingly clear.

My hands grow cold and I clench them firmly in my lap. I can feel them begin to shake and tremble against my will; I feel lightheaded. _This is so dreadfully important. I need to act perfectly. __**Perfectly.**_

I become aware of an insistent tug on my arm.

"Fee, come back to earth and join us," says the impudent voice of my little brother. My head swims as I mentally awake and look up; Kíli is already on his feet, his hand pulling on my arm. "We have to go up, now."

_Up to the chopping block, up to the shooting range, up to the gallows. Up to the stares, the questions, the glares. Up, up, up. Step right up, folks; step right up—come one, come all, come see the show. Come see the little child who would be king._

Cold little fingers wrap around mine, and I realize that Kíli has taken my hand. The cloud lifts from my eyes once again and I realize that he's studying my face, so I offer him an easy smile, squeeze his hand briefly and then let go. Reassured, his eyes sparkle once more and he smiles back at me; stepping aside, he allows me to walk up the stairs in front of him as I'm supposed to. I square my shoulders, tilt my chin and hold my head high. _Up, up, up._

Balin is beating out some obscure rhythm on a small drum; it's just the three of us onstage. Kíli and I move in perfect synchronization through our shared part of the ceremony—I know it so well that I am hardly aware of what we are doing. It all goes by like a hazy dream, where one is not sure whether or not it even happened. The only clear picture in my mind is when Kíli and I hold a golden goblet high in the air and slowly pour its honeyed wine onto the platform. _Splish-splish-splish. _Kíli's youthful voice is raised high in a sing-song exultation, a three-line Khuzdul chant. _Splish-splish-splash. _My own, deeper voice harmonizes with his as I hum a deep, almost tuneless series of notes. _Splash. Splash. Drip. Drip. _

The libation is over. I take a deep breath; so far so good.

A hiss, an explosion of fragrance, and I know without turning my head that Kíli's torch has been lit. The bitter-sweet aroma of the agar wood immediately fills the air, thick and smoking. It fills my nostrils, heavy and sharp, indicating Kíli's close proximity to me. I know from practice that he is standing behind me on my left, just out of my peripheral vision, but I find myself wishing that he could step just a tad bit closer so I could see him.

The drum stops. Silence reigns.

"_Oh mighty Mahal," _I intone clearly in Khuzdul, my voice ringing out over the staring crowd below, "_Hear clearly my cry; turn not a deaf ear to your children…"_

After the first verse of the first passage is spoken, Balin begins beating the drum once more. It has a simple beat now, echoing ominously behind my words like a steady heartbeat. As soon as I begin speaking my nerves melt away, all dark thoughts far from my mind as I concentrate on the recitation. The heavy language falls from my lips as naturally as Westron; my elocution is flawless. Line after line slips away, floating off on the summer breeze as the smoke from the agar torch. I can feel the knots in my shoulders fade, and it doesn't hurt to stand up straight any more. Tension remains but terror is gone. I venture a glance into the crowd below. Mother stands in the very front, her face bright with joy. I feel proud.

Five long passages gone. Seven. Twelve. My most difficult one, passage fifteen, flows on without a hitch and I breathe a quick, silent sigh of relief. Sixteen. The last verse of seventeen fades…

… And that is when my mind goes blank.

Eighteen… eighteen... _Mahal help me, I can't remember how passage eighteen begins._ My mind races desperately and the drum continues to sound.

_Boom. _

Oh, Mahal. Maybe I can skip those lines. Maybe no one will notice. I know the rest of it, I remember verses fifteen through thirty; maybe I can just start at verse fifteen and keep going?

_Boom. _

Of course I can't skip those lines. The rest of the passage won't make sense. It'll be a glaring mistake and I'll look foolish.

_Boom._

How did it begin? '_Verily, verily…' _No, that's from passage nineteen. '_We feel your presence in_…' No, that's verse twenty-three… '_Through the storms of our sins…' _No, no—

_Boom._

Sweet Eru, I can't think! I can't think with that blasted drum! What's the first line? _What's the first filthy stupid son-of-an-orc god-forsaken verse of this accursed passage—_Mahal, have mercy! I know the rest of the entire thing _I really do I know everything else please help me, __**please**__—_

_Boom._

I can hear the faintest murmur in the crowd; they are confused at my inexplicable silence. I'll be a laughingstock. I _am _a laughingstock. Poor Uncle Thorin. Poor Mum. I'm sorry.

_Boom._

"_Look down now, o Father of Stone,_" a young voice cries with confidence, _"Shine the light of your grace upon this earth…"_

Kíli. Oh, sweet Eru, it's Kíli. How is this possible? How does _he_ know it?

The murmuring below increases tenfold, others being evidently as shocked as I feel. Breaking all tradition, ignoring all rules concerning this ritual, my little brother has come to my aide and is reciting the passage with all the correct pronunciations and articulation. It takes every bit of my remaining nerves to school my features into calm, to prevent my turning around to look at him in slack-jawed surprise. I feel light-headed. I mentally scream my thanks to the almighty Eru for my brother's sudden and utterly unexpected rescue. Meanwhile I discreetly take several deep breaths, trying to regain my composure as I prepare to intercede when Kíli gives me a chance.

Kíli recites exactly the first fifteen lines and then pauses, evidently testing to see if I am prepared to continue. I do so, immediately.

"_In times of poverty or times of wealth, we shall remember your name…"_

All is silent once again save for the sound of my voice and the everlasting drum. My pride is gone. I feel so terribly embarrassed; I can only hope that my face is not flushed. The last of that dreaded passage eighteen disappears, followed by nineteen… and finally, twenty. I made it, not unscathed, but I made it. As my last words evaporate into the air, the drum's beats increase—_boom, boom-boom, boom, boom-boom—_and then cease. The ritual is complete.

The crowd explodes into applause, but I scarcely hear it. My eyes cloud over—I messed up. _Father would've been disappointed, if he were here._

When we walk down the stairs Kíli grabs my shoulder from behind, stopping me before we can reach the bottom.

"Fee—"

"You did well." I reply huskily. I glance over my shoulder, smiling wanly. "Thank you."

"So did you," he adds hastily as I begin walking again. "You really did, honest. It's all alright."

I want to tell him exactly how much it's _not _alright but I don't get a chance, for when I reach the last step I find myself all but swooped off my feet by our mother's embrace.

"Fíli, Fíli, well done!" she gushes, crushing me to her bosom in an over-enthusiastic hug. I smile despite myself—I can always count on one loyal fan. "You were wonderful, sweetheart; great job. What a difficult performance—oh, Kíli," she says, reaching out her other arm and pulling my little brother close. "You were splendid—and what a surprise!" She kisses us both. "My boys, always sticking together."

Eventually she releases us, and Kíli and I stand by with sheepish smiles. Then Uncle Thorin appears and we both automatically straighten up, smiles fading as we take in his stern expression. He turns to me, and my gaze immediately falters and falls to the ground.

"What happened up there?" my guardian demands.

"He was nervous, Uncle," Kíli quickly asserts, rising to my defense in the wake of Uncle's impending temper. "That's all; he just—"

"Quiet!" Kíli falls silent and I feel him shrink back slightly. "I asked your brother. Fíli, what happened?"

My throat feels so painfully tight I can barely speak. "I forgot the opening lines for passage eighteen." No excuse, no defense, because I know that's not what Thorin wants to hear.

He gives a short sigh; he's angry. "And why did you forget?" he snaps. "Did you practice? Fíli, look at me—" The last line is an order and I quickly obey it. "Didn't you practice?"

"Thorin, please," Mother begins, but without as much as a glance her way my uncle raises his hand for silence.

I clench my teeth as I fight down the nausea of anxiety that suddenly overwhelms me. _Didn't I practice?_ I can feel that tears are humiliatingly close. _What an insulting question._

"Yes, Uncle," I answer simply, quietly. "I practiced. I've practiced every day for five weeks."

"Did you practice today?"

"Yes, Sir."

"While you were running wild around the festival grounds with your brother?" he growls. I can't meet his piercing gaze and I stare at his jerkin laces instead.

"I practiced, Sir," I answer miserably.

"Thorin, stop it." My mother sounds angry herself, now; she steps forward and glowers at her older brother. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why am _I _doing this?" Uncle echoes, looking back at her now, a dark storm cloud brewing on his face. "Because this was your sons' first major obligation to our people, Dís, and evidently one of them did _not _take it seriously enough to be sufficiently prepared. He had time, he had help. There is no excuse for this."

"Oh, for pity's sake, you're being outrageous!" my mother exclaims. "The boy had a case of _nerves_; there is nothing shameful in that! It _happens,_ Brother. Be thankful it ended as well as it did!"

"That's the point, Dís, it should not have 'happened' at all." Uncle Thorin turns back to me. "If you had taken a little extra time to refresh your memory today instead of fooling around all afternoon," he insists, "You would not have forgotten. Am I right?"

I swallow hard. "Perhaps, but Uncle," I protest meekly, "I-I remembered everything else, I knew _all_ of the rest—"

"Fíli," he interrupts quietly, taking my shoulder firmly and trying to catch my gaze. He seems less angry now, but no less stern. "Am I right?"

I bite the inside of my mouth, feeling absolutely ashamed. There is no escaping his gaze and I am forced to meet it. "Y-Yes, Sir," I eventually concede.

Uncle pauses, looking at me for a long moment before he releases my shoulder. His temper appears to have evaporated and his posture relaxes. "This was your first time. You did well," he says matter-of-factly with a small nod, "An admirable effort. Next time, however, I expect you to prepare better. And _**you**_—" Here Thorin raises his voice slightly and turns to my brother, who hiccups with surprise. "I believe that you know the rules as well, young man; do you not?"

I venture a glance at Kíli and he looks up at our Uncle with wide eyes that could melt an icicle. He swallows nervously. "No, Sir—I mean yes, Sir—I'm supposed to stay silent after my chant, Sir."

"Indeed," Uncle Thorin intones, raising an eyebrow. "A rule you willfully broke." Kíli visibly shrivels. "In this case, however, though it is decidedly against protocol and not entirely proper—" He reaches out and wraps his arm around Kíli's shoulder, "—I think that it can be forgiven for the good that was done. It was fortuitous that were able to step in as you did, and I am impressed that you took the time to memorize something that was not your responsibility to learn."

Kíli's expression morphs from one of fear, to surprise, to bright-eyed pleasure so quickly that it really is quite laughable. He smiles tentatively at our guardian, receiving a softened expression in return, but upon glancing at me my little brother's expression falters. He immediately begins a hasty explanation as the two turn toward the crowd. "I-I'm not that grand at all, Uncle," I can hear Kíli say earnestly, "I just inadvertently learned a few verses here and there while helping Fíli prepare these past weeks; that's all. It was just a lucky thing."

"A very lucky thing, then," is the quiet reply. His next words are lost to my ears as they approach the noise of the crowd.

"Don't mind your uncle, Fíli," my mother grumbles, linking her arm around mine as we follow them. "He's just cross and stressed out from the way some of the elders were talking today… and in any case, he's just a crotchety old goat, anyhow." She turns to me, smiling that sun-and-butterflies smile of hers, blue eyes dancing. "You did an excellent job, even if you did forget a few loathsome versus of that silly passage. I'm very proud of you—" Here she tweaks my nose. "—And I mean it."

I summon enough strength to give her a bright smile, even if it doesn't reach my heart, and she squeezes my arm tightly. I look a few yards ahead to where Uncle Thorin and Kíli are walking, and despite myself I feel a pain of jealousy.

_I should be the one over whose shoulders Uncle proudly drapes his arm, not him._

* * *

By the time Kíli finishes washing up and returns to our room, I've already dimmed the lamp and climbed into bed, curled on my side with the blanket pulled just below my eyes. At the corner of my vision I watch him enter and close the door, looking at me with a perplexed expression. I mentally will him to go away while wishing for the umpteenth time that _I _had the bed further away from the door. At least _he _has a blank wall to turn to when he wishes to be alone.

Of course, like a typical little brother, he doesn't go away. He comes and sits on the edge of my bed, close to my huddled form.

"You're cross with me."

He says it not as a question but a quiet observation. I sigh deeply.

"No, Kíli, I'm not." My voice is slightly muffled by the blanket, but I know he heard me. Yet, he continues to sit there, watching me. I glance over at him. "Really, I'm not."

"You haven't said all of ten words to me the entire evening," he persists, "Ever since the ceremony. It's because of that stupid verse isn't it?"

I snuffle slightly beneath the blanket and say nothing in response.

"Fee, please." He lays a hand on my hip and leans forward, looking at me earnestly. "I didn't do it to get Uncle's praise, or to steal your moment of triumph, or anything like that. I wasn't trying to get attention at all."

"I know," I mumble.

"I did it for _you_, to help _you_—" His voice takes such a plaintive note that I turn and gaze upon him fully. He looks so ridiculously guilty that I feel sorry for him. "—I couldn't think what else to do. I thought to whisper it to you, but—"

"I know, Kíli; I know." I pull the covers down from my face as I smile at him fondly. "You were splendid. I promise I'm not angry at you; I'm thankful for what you did. I just…" I sigh despondently, and turn my face away. "I'm just disappointed in how things turned out, is all."

I close my eyes, effectively ending the conversation, and after a minute or two Kíli stands up and walks slowly away.

The light goes out; the room falls completely dark. I breathe a shuddering sigh—and my eyes fly open with a start of surprise when I feel Kíli climbing in bed alongside me.

"Go away, you persistent twerp," I mutter, a catch in my throat.

"Never, you grumpy crosspatch," he pipes, laying down behind me and pushing his forehead against my shoulder blades. He throws his arm over me in a kind of half-hug and sighs with contentment.

"Grow up," I mumble hoarsely.

"Let go," he whispers. "It's only me."

There's a long pause as I bite my lip hard and squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I shudder slightly and Kíli tightens his arm around me. We lay in silence for a long while.

"I… I worked so _hard, _Kee." My choked voice breaks the stillness like a cracking plate. I realize my pillow is damp, and a childish sniffle escapes me before I can stop it. "It's not _fair_."

It takes him so long to reply that at first I think he has fallen asleep. Finally, though, he replies.

"I know, Big Brother," Kíli whispers shakily. "I know."

* * *

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

_A/N: __The Blue Canary—my muse—is very excited about The Mark of Gideon. He's been tweeting and twittering about it for months, simply bursting with ideas. __**Please let him and I know what you think by leaving us some reviews! :)**_

_My current forecast for this story is that it will run 18 chapters long. I will attempt to post a couple chapters before school starts up again, but just to warn you, once the semester begins I may not be able to update for a while. I may disappear for a length of time, but fear not: this story WILL be finished. Any absence will NOT be permanent. I have this story planned out from beginning to end, with thick and juicy story outlines to back me up. I just need time to get the words on paper. _

_As a rule, I think that these chapters will generally be shorter than my average 4500 words. I predict that on average they'll probably be about 2800 words long—rather short by my standards—though some chapters will likely be quite a bit larger or a bit shorter. It will depend on the content. This first chapter is a monstrous size—the largest I have ever written, to date—and such a size shall not likely be repeated. Take it as a special treat!_


	2. Chapter II

_**A/N: **__The Blue Canary is pleased at the positive response to this new tale! He has perched himself on the frame of my laptop screen and has puffed up with satisfaction. Thank you for reading, following, favoriting, and sending me the occasional private message. It's been good to hear from some old fans! Special thanks goes to my lovely reviewers __**Thorny Hedge, wardog85, rodeocat, BM originally, xeia, jaymzNshed, MistakenMagic, GregsMadHatter, deanandhisimpala, Death to elves, **__and __**BarbedWire.**_

_Please enjoy this next chapter._

* * *

**Chapter II**

* * *

"_**O God, O God,**_

_**how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable**_

_**seem to me all the uses of this world!"**_

–_William Shakespeare, "Hamlet"_

* * *

He stares at me as though he has never seen me before.

"Don't look at me like that, Little Brother," I sigh. "You heard me right; I'm not going."

Kíli sits hunched on the bench by the door, frozen in the act of pulling on his boot. One foot remains lofted high in the air, his hands clutching the edges of the hard boot leather, and I am hard-pressed not to laugh at the sight of it. Only the thought of hurting his feelings at this tense moment prevents me from doing so.

"But why not, Fíli?" he softly exclaims in surprise, finally lowering his foot to the ground. "You've never… It's just… You've always wanted to. We always go."

Guiltily, I shuffle my slippered feet against the rug and continue to hover in the foyer entrance. "Well, Kíli, you see… That's the point." I lean wearily against the archway. "We _always _go. The same day, almost every week, we do this."

Kíli just blinks at me, a kind of stupefied expression on his face. "That's the point, though, isn't it?" He shakes his head and bends over to tie his laces. "It's our thing," he says simply, "Just you and me."

I shut my eyes against the oncoming sense of frustration and take a deep breath. How to make him understand? It's true that up until recently I've never had any qualms about our weekly excursion to the "wilds", as we call it. Typically every Saturday morning my brother and I head out to explore the woods or mountainous regions that are within the perimeters set by Mother and Uncle years ago—sometimes even sneaking out a bit further—in the name of exploration. We spend hours walking, running, climbing, and merrily chasing one another through rocks and vegetation. As we've grown older, and presumably responsible, these perimeters have gradually been increased. It has finally reached the point that we have explored ever inch and corner of explorable land that lies within a five-mile radius of the settlement. We are allowed to go no further unaccompanied. Still, we have been content with our lot and have freely roamed these lands, playing and investigating to our heart's satisfaction.

In the past year, however, I have gradually grown somewhat discontent with this pastime. I never said a word to my brother because I know how much he enjoys these outings and I did not want to be spoiling his fun. I tried to tell myself that the feeling would pass, that _next week_ I would feel more enthused, but the weeks continued to slip by and it never happened. The feeling of discontentment has only continued to grow until it reached the pinnacle: thorough, utter, undeniable boredom. Maybe it is because of the regularity of our adventuring that the prospect has gone stale, I do not know… but I _do_ know that this particular morning I have absolutely_ no_ desire to go trudging through dreary prairie grass or up all-to-familiar mountain paths. I simply can't do it.

"Kíli, I don't know how else to say this, but I really don't want to go today." I bite the inside of my cheek, watching my brother uncertainly.

If I expected him to whine or grouse or otherwise complain, I was wrong. Kíli just finishes tying his boot, sits up and stares at me for a long moment, then finally nods his head. He frowns slightly, perplexed.

"Okay," he answers carefully. "Then what do you want to do?"

I pause, trying to find the words. "I'm not sure, but…"

"We could go to the Men's marketplace instead," Kíli offers quickly. "We haven't been down there in a long while. See what new merchants have rolled through. Maybe we'd stop at Uncle's forge around noontime, and—"

"I had thought to be alone," I interrupt him quietly.

Now Kíli stares with great confusion mingled with an ounce of hurt and I avert my gaze. "Oh." His voice is soft. A few heartbeats later he speaks again. "You don't want to be with _me_, is that it?"

I sigh, the creeping sense of annoyance growing a bit more. "No, Kíli, no; don't take it that way," I appease; "I just want to be on my own a bit, that's all. Not just from you, but anybody. I feel like getting out on my lonesome today."

The dark-haired dwarfling continues to stare at me from his corner, saying nothing. Something flickers in his brown eyes but I can't discern what it is.

"You've been acting strangely," he eventually says, eyebrows furrowing even further, "Ever since the festival last week. What's going on?"

Inwardly I grumble—all I want is some privacy and Kíli automatically assumes that there is something wrong with me. Typical. I stare back at him blankly. "Nothing," I insist with a small shrug. "I just want some time to myself." At his searching look, I add, the faintest edge on my voice— "Is that too much to ask?"

Apparently it is, for my brother still appears unconvinced and rather concerned. "Anything you want, Big Brother," is all he'll say.

I release the breath I realize I had been holding. I am thankful that, for once, Kíli does not put up an argument or take to interrogating me.

* * *

Eventually my disheartened brother wanders off by himself, though not to explore—for we are forbidden to wander far through the woodlands alone; he most likely has gone in search of a friend. I feel a mite guilty knowing that I have disappointed and possibly offended him, but I shake myself out of that feeling. I figure that Kíli's got to learn we cannot do everything together all the time.

A little while after he leaves I head out on my own, a specific destination in mind. I hike up high into the rocks and through some rough scrub and trees, finally to arrive at a little outcrop that boasts a clear view of the valley below. Here I plop down in the cool shade of a large tree and dangle my feet precariously over the edge of the rock, mindful of the refreshing silence that surrounds me. The only sounds are the occasional twittering bird, scampering chipmunk or squirrel, and the tired wind brushing the treetops. In the absence of Kíli's nonsensical chatter I am left to think things over in peace.

Oh, Kíli— bothersome, omnipresent… irreplaceable. For better or for worse he is an incredibly observant and empathetic individual, especially when it comes to me. Nothing escapes him as far as my well-being is concerned. We are too close to hide things from one another, because we can emotionally sense the other's state with uncanny precision. Still, it doesn't mean that we don't miss things. Kíli's observation was correct—I haven't been the same since the festival—but that's not where it all began. Actually, I've been changing for quite some time now… and I don't know when or how it started. I think it happened so slowly, quietly, and gradually, that I only noticed when it had already sprung upon me:

I'm growing up.

I mean, that's nothing new. We all begin to grow the moment that we are conceived in the womb and it doesn't stop. By _growing_ I mean that I'm entering a new stage of life, like when a small child abandons helpless cries for attention in favor of actual words. I am changing from the inside-out on a significant level.

At first I thought that it was everyone else around me who was acting differently; I was sure of it. Everything and everyone felt so strange and foreign to me, their behavior so predictable and often faulty, foolish. It took time for me to come to the conclusion that the one who was different was me. I am now in a sort of semi-state, a world between worlds; I am in an in-between stage where I have begun to acquire greater, more adult self-awareness of myself and the world around me. No longer am I the innocent child who sees the world through rose colored glasses; nor am I the hypercritical, younger adolescent who finds fault with everything. It is as though the fog has been lifted from my eyes and for the first time I am seeing the universe as it truly is, good and bad.

As I said, I am not a child anymore—and I find myself increasingly unable to relate to dwarves significantly younger than myself—but I am hopelessly far from being an actual adult, either. One world has shrunk to claustrophobic proportions, unable to service my needs, yet the other world is far too large and I am ill prepared to meet it. It is like needing a new pair of shoes: the original set is exceedingly small, far too tight and painfully cramped; but the new pair is so swimmingly oversized that one's feet cannot even begin to fill it. What is one to do? I am neither here nor there.

Granted, I have always felt a tad awkward even among my peers. I was always rather mature for my age. Of course, I am not past being as mischievous a terror as my brother, but when it comes down to business I'm always more forward-thinking, more practical. Mother believes I was robbed of a portion of my youthful innocence when my father had been taken from this world so suddenly; she said that I had grown up prematurely. While I didn't lose my childhood—for I was _so_ young when Da passed on—it certainly left its mark on me. I have been described as an old soul with a young heart; I do not believe it to be an entirely inaccurate description. Even Kíli has called me old, and on multiple occasions, too.

Kíli has been spared that loss. He doesn't even remember Da; he feels his absence at times but not as I do. My little brother is a free spirit, a chatterbox little sparrow with scarcely a care in the world, it seems. When we are together we share in his innocence.

Increasingly, however, I find myself leaving him and his childish charms behind. I cannot continue living in our shared bubble of naiveté. The years are marching on and so am I. As my age increases, so do my responsibilities. As the eldest I must become more competent in assisting in the family's welfare. As Thorin's heir I am expected to accomplish a great deal more than Kíli will ever need worry about. With me, there can be no mistakes. There is no room for error. I am the First and Primary Heir. It was never kept a secret from me that I was to carry a heavy load someday, but the idea of being a crown prince to a throne as distant as the ghosts in our fairy tales was just too unreal to be wholly understood or accepted. Day by day, however, the fairy tale gains frightening clarity. For the first time in my life do I understand the gravity of my position… and it weighs on me heavily.

My world feels smaller, people seem older, and everything suddenly seems so much more difficult and complicated than it was in times past. Mahal, help me, but I don't like it at all.

I open my eyes, realizing that I have fallen into a light doze in the warm sun. Two hours has past and the sun has risen high in the sky, shifting the shade and leaving me in a shimmering path of light. I wriggle away from the outcrop edge and lean against a fallen tree trunk, shutting my eyes as I allow my brooding mind to continue in its wanderings. A distant memory comes to light…

"_What's wrong, Papa?"_

_He's bent over the old mahogany desk, quill pen in hand, but at the sound of my voice he immediately raises his head. "Wrong?" he echoes, a small smile turning his lips, "Nothing's wrong, little one. Your old father is just working, is all." He straightens up and sighs, leaning back wearily in his chair. He takes a moment to stretch, and he tips his seat onto its back legs as he runs his hands through his impressive golden mane. I take the opportunity to run to his eagerly to his side, to which he responds by swooping me up into his lap with an exaggerated groan._

_I say nothing for a while. Instead, I study the older dwarf's face, his every feature; though he smiles down at me his piercing brown eyes seem clouded with worry, his handsome face careworn and tired. I trace one of my small fingers over his mustache before gently tugging one of its braids._

"_Da," I ask again, fiddling with the metal clasp. "What's wrong?"_

_He blinks with surprise at the question and chuckles softly. "You are persistent, aren't you?" Da tightens his arm around me. "Now, why do you think there is something wrong with me?"_

_I gaze at him solemnly. "Your face, Da—" I brush my fingers over his cheeks and around his eyes, tracing every wrinkle. "—I can see it."_

_He chuckles again, reaching his hand up to ruffle my hair fiercely before wrapping his arm around me and pulling me close. "Ah, Fíli. Nothing's wrong, really. It's just these confounded books, is all." He sighs deeply, before looking down at me and offering me a sneaky grin. "I hate these books," he whispers conspiratorially. "Such nasty, bothersome things." _

"_But you look so worried," I persist._

"_Not worrying, my boy," Da retorts, tweaking my nose, "I'm just thinking, is all."_

_My fingers entwine in his beard and I frown at him slightly. "Then," I conclude gravely, "You think too much, Father."_

_That seems to give him pause. He gazes at me softly, almost wonderingly, his eyes eventually crinkling with merriment. "Perhaps you are right, little lion." His small side-smile is rather rueful. "But that is the scourge of adulthood. There is so much to think about."_

_At that statement I release his beard and lean my head against his chest. "I do not want to grow up to be an adult," I pout. "Adults are always frowning and busy and tired, and they spend so much time thinking and being cross about everything."_

_Da laughs heartily at that, but I know he is not laughing at me; he is laughing at the truth of what I say. "Fear not, my boy," he eventually replies, "You are all of six summers old… you've got plenty of time yet to linger in the sun." He kisses me on the top of my head. "By the time you are of age you shall be much wiser and more experienced, more able to deal with the problems of the world. For now, that is not your concern. It's time for you to enjoy life's little pleasures and nothing more." As I look up at him, I smile at the amused and adoring expression on his face. "And I think," he continues, "That when the time comes for you to grow up, you will turn out just fine."_

A sigh shudders through me; now that time has come. I grab a fistful of dry grass beside me and tug it out of the cracked, dusty earth. I wish fervently—and not for the first time—that I could talk to my father about this whole growing up business.

* * *

The sun is low in the sky when I eventually return home. I had spent the day in quiet solitude, picnicking at lunchtime on some of my mother's rolls and some dried meat. Now my small family is gathered around dinner, Mum bustling about and placing various plates on the table as my brother chatters on about something that he and his companions were up to that afternoon. Uncle inserts some quiet comment that makes my brother laugh, but I am only half-listening to the conversation and I miss the joke. There is some back-and-forth dialog between Mum and Kíli over the "hateful" vegetables, and finally the meat platter passes my way and I fork some food onto my plate. When I try to take the bread basket from Uncle Thorin's outstretched hand he doesn't release it, and I look up in surprise. He is looking at me with a raised eyebrow, lips quirked into an amused smirk. I pause, and discover that the others are staring at me as well.

"Did I miss something?" I ask, confused.

Thorin laughs quietly. "Your mother asked how your day was." He relinquishes his hold on the bread basket and I accept it with a sheepish smile.

"Oh. Sorry, Mum; I didn't hear you."

"So I noticed," she chuckles. "I was surprised to hear that you and your brother parted ways this morning."

I smile, shrugging. "Felt like a change. I had a pleasant day," is all I say. My mother looks content, but Kíli is far from satisfied with that answer.

"But what did you do?" he queries curiously.

I shrug again. "Nothing much." Distracted, I push my fork into my mashed potatoes. "Spent a quiet day to myself."

"Doing _what_?" Kíli urges, unable to take a hint. He seems aggravated that I am not more forthcoming.

Eventually spooning some peas, I glance across the table at him. "Thinking," I reply quietly. "Just thinking."

* * *

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

_**A/N:**__ If this felt a bit slow, pray give it a chance. The chapter was rather wordy and introspective, but it was necessary... I promise that there will be more action in the future. Feed the little bird with some reviews, won't you? :)_

_P.S. To my followers: if you received multiple emails alerting you for this new chapter, I apologize. The site gave me some trouble posting it, and due to an ongoing glitch on my account I had to delete/reupload it several times. Thanks for your patience!_


	3. Chapter III

**_A/N:_**_ The Blue Canary is stuffed to near-bursting with delicious cupcakes (gifted by Gladoo!). There are crumbs covering my laptop, now… *brushes them away with a wry smirk*_

_New fans, new readers… hurrah! Thank you, everyone! Of course, special thanks to my reviewers __**GregsMadHatter, Ruairi, Barbed Wire, jaymzNshed, deanandhisimpala, MistakenMagic, MotherMountain, Gladoo89, dojoson41, **__and my guest reviewer __**Death to elves **__(read my closing note for an answer to your question, friend!)._

* * *

**Chapter III**

* * *

"_**All the world's a stage, **_

_**and all the men and women merely players: **_

_**they have their exits and their entrances; **_

_**and one man in his time plays many parts, **_

_**his acts being seven ages."**_

– _William Shakespeare, "As You Like It"_

* * *

Wet ink dribbles from the idle quill pen in my hand onto the loose parchment below. With a low hiss of annoyance I quickly wipe the black spots away with a gum pad. For several minutes I have been staring at the calculations before me with a mixture of fascination, bewilderment, and loathing. Even now I am leaning my forehead into my hand, elbow propped up on the table, while frowning down at the stubborn little figures scratched onto the paper. Math has always been my strong suit but not without great toil and frustration—Balin discovered years ago that I could gain mastery in practically any subject if I pushed myself enough, which I always did, just short of beating my own brains out. I flip my attention back to the weathered book for the umpteenth time and thumb through the same five pages yet again.

"Not quite, Kíli; you skipped a step," I can hear Balin murmur nearby. "Try it again, laddie."

My little brother groans. "_What _step? What am I missing?" His voice is somewhat high, reedy, a sure sign that he is at his wit's end. As intelligent as he is, Kíli holds no great love for calculus. He huffs in frustration and slaps down his piece of chalk with finality. "I can't do this problem anymore, Mister Balin," he declares. The sound of his elbows clunking against the table indicates that he is holding his head in frustration. "I've had enough of this."

Our tutor sighs and seems he is about to argue when he suddenly addresses me, instead. "Fíli! For heaven's sake lad, why are you using the calligraphy parchment?"

Hunched over my work, I can't bother myself to look up at his exasperated tone. A fresh candle of inspiration has suddenly lit in my mind and I am scribbling work down furiously. "Ran out of room on my slate and then ran out of scrap paper," I mumble absent-mindedly. My pen scratches away noisily and I am so focused that I don't notice Balin's approach until he lays his hand on my shoulder; I jerk in surprise and look up.

"Goodness. You _have _been busy, haven't you?" he says, eyebrows raised sky-high and a small smile peeking out from beneath his bushy white beard. His eyes rove around the space around me, and I follow his gaze. Papers are strewn all about the floor beneath my feet, around the chair, on my lap and cluttering the table. I hadn't realized how carried away I got. Turning back to Balin, I smile sheepishly.

"Well… I guess I have. But it's this formula, it's fascinating—I don't understand half of it, but Balin—" In my excitement I forget myself and address him without the appropriate title; neither of us seems to take much notice of my indiscretion. "—this part here, look." I scrabble at the old book and flip back to earlier pages. "I haven't seen the looks of it before. You've never taught us this method. Look, look here…"

The questions on mathematical theory fly eagerly from my lips and Balin listens. I show him my progression from the careful chalkings on my slate all the way to the haphazardly inked calculations on the parchment. As I wait for his response to my questions I study his gentle face, now wrinkled with his white eyebrows scrunched in thought, and I smile softly to myself. Balin is the wisest dwarf I know, aside from my own mother, and most certainly the most knowledged. From the history of our people to the science of chemistry, he is a true wizard, brilliant in every way. It is no question why Thorin entrusted us to his old friend's care long ago.

Were we in Erebor, Kíli and I would've most likely had all manners of teachers and instructors at our beck and call for all subjects, each dwarf specializing in one area or another. We would've had Erebor's vast library at our fingertips, hundreds to thousands of tomes ready for our absorption at any given time. Living in exile as we do, however, such things are a mere fantasy, the ghost of a life lost along with our people's wealth and home far away. There are no great dwarves of learning any more—they are dead, moved on, or else hidden from our sight, fighting for survival along with the rest of us. We have no library, and books are hard to come by; the ones we do possess have been paid for dearly, all in sacrifice for the education of two princelings. I once overhead Thorin comment bitterly that we live not as princes but mere paupers, with no advantage or hope for a better life near in sight. Such nonsense. I would take our Balin and his travel-stained books over an entire army of Thorin's childhood tutors any day. If anyone can prepare me and my brother for our future, he is the best candidate.

"I must confess, young master Fíli, that I can make neither head nor tail of this." Balin shakes his head with apparent dismay, but when he turns to me his brown eyes are positively dancing. "It seems… you have surpassed my knowledge." With a muted sigh of contentment he scans the tome once more and flips a few more pages before he shakes his head once more. "These are incredibly complex, more than those I have examined in many a year. I regret I cannot answer your questions on these old gems. I am, however, impressed that you explored these on your own and worked your way so far through them." The dwarf turns to me with a warm, almost doting smile. "You are becoming quite the scholar, my boy."

I can't help my astonishment; I must look like a gaping trout because Balin laughs and ruffles my hair with great amusement. I force myself to put my jaw back into place before staring blankly at my quill.

Balin knows everything about anything! Surely surpassing him is an impossible task.

As shocked as I feel my chest suddenly swells with pride and I look down the table at my brother, grinning triumphantly, but he only stares back at me blankly. Just as it happened several days ago, some uncertain emotion flickers on Kíli's face and is gone before I can identify it; his gaze sinks down to his own slate as Balin returns to his side. With Kíli's complete lack of enthusiasm my own fades almost instantly.

Of course Balin _can't_ know everything. Uncle Thorin has said so himself. It's common sense, for Durin's sake. Yet, the thought of it makes me suddenly all choked up and I do not know why. I have to swallow a couple times to get rid of the feeling.

_Balin has __**always**__ known more than me._

* * *

"Raise your arm! Higher! _Higher,_ I said!"

I grunt in pain from the blow I receive and resist the instinctive urge to withdraw my sword arm. Dwalin is a tough instructor, almost as hard to please as Uncle Thorin, and twice as rough; he will have us learn. He comes at me again, sparring rod swinging, and we go through the sequence again. Just as before he leans in for a blow and I swing my rod around, but despite my concentrated effort my reaction time is too slow; Dwalin's rod cracks down on my arm a third time.

"For goodness sakes!" he exclaims as I inadvertently hiss in dire discomfort, "This isn't a namby-pamby pillow fight with your brother; _raise your arm and defend yourself, _curses and confound it all, boy!"

Kíli chuckles on the sidelines and I clench my teeth, aggravated. I double my efforts in obeying the dwarf's instructions, for my repeated mistake and Dwalin's repeated correction has left my arm sore… as well as my pride. This time I am successful and Dwalin grumbles his approval as I correctly counter his move.

"Need a break?" he asks me with gruff concern. When I shake my head firmly a sly grin sneaks onto his face. "Alright, then we'll end with our free-fight. I know you've been waitin' for this." He tosses aside the rod and picks up a practice sword, a glint in his eye. "You're cross and you want to get even."

"Not cross, just impatient," I assert firmly, picking up a pair of twin swords and twirling them experimentally. About a month ago I began training in two-handed combat, honing in on my tendency towards ambidexterity. Though I am still quite new to this style of fighting I already find that I am favoring it.

Dwalin nods at my weapons. "Sure you want two?"

Cheekily, I grin at him. "Why?" I ask him sweetly, "Does it worry you?"

The dwarf snarls dangerously in response and I smile all the wider; Dwalin's like another uncle, and I know his limits to teasing as well as I know Thorin's.

"Yeah, it worries me," Dwalin grouches. "I worry that you'll slice your own arm off in an exuberant show of over-confidence. Take care," he snaps with finality. "You're still learning the feel of those things."

My impudent grin remains intact but I nod at him grimly. "Yes sir, I know."

And so we begin.

It's a typical way to end our training with Dwalin; he often allows us to have a free fight with him or each other. By free fight, of course, I mean that we have our choice of weapon and the match itself is essentially a free-for-all. There is little correction of any kind and it serves mainly as a reward, allowing us to have a little fun while still getting some practice. I enjoy fighting with my brother but I almost always win—Kíli still has some growing to do before his strength and endurance can equal mine—and though he doesn't admit it, I know it smites his pride every time. Fighting with Dwalin is always a daunting challenge; it's never a matter of winning—for beating my instructor is next to impossible—it's a matter of seeing how long I can last before I am forced to yield. It's like a game.

Only once was Dwalin defeated during one of our training sessions, and that was when he agreed to allow me and Kíli to team up against him. We were extremely pleased with ourselves that day and we still won't allow our favorite instructor to forget it, either. Yet, it doesn't _really _count, at least not to me. Neither Kíli nor I have ever been close to defeating the mountain of a dwarf on our own, and I doubt we ever will. I think we derive a strange security in knowing that Dwalin will always be stronger and more cunning than either of us.

That last thought is just flitting through my mind when I suddenly realize that we have stopped...

… and my blunt blade is hovering at Dwalin's shoulder. We stand there, he panting, I desperately heaving for air. Then come the words I thought I'd never hear.

"I yield to you," he says quietly. When I continue standing there and staring like a simpleton, he glances at my sword and then back at me, smirking slightly. "I think it's safe to remove that now, laddie."

Quickly I pull back the weapon and continue standing there, shocked and dazed and thoroughly out of breath, unable to think coherently. From somewhere far away Kíli cheers loudly, Dwalin murmuring some words of congratulation. In the next few moments I am vaguely aware that a body has collided with mine, enthusiastic arms draping themselves around my neck and a familiar laugh of delight ringing in my ear. Dwalin replaces the sword in its bin, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and looks down at me with the biggest smile I have ever seen grace his face. He is practically glowing with pride.

I have just conquered the unconquerable. I should be bubbling over with joy, like my little brother is doing right now. I should feel giddy beyond all belief!

Yet, I feel great sorrow.

Another protective layer has just crumbled and fallen away, leaving me feeling more weak and vulnerable than ever before. Defeating Dwalin feels like such a hallow victory, another reminder that things are changing, that they cannot remain as they once were.

_I am only half paying attention to the dwarf's words. Every time he stops me with a harsh voice and critiques my work, I find myself gazing vacantly at him, not really seeing or hearing him. His lips move, for I can see them moving, but the words that come forth are garbled or else completely voiceless, lost in the haze of my clouded mind. At some point I catch the exasperated exclamation of "You know better than that—you haven't made that sloppy a mistake since you were your brother's age."_

_At the mention of my brother, my barely-suppressed temper flares like a fire under a hot wind. How dare he call Kíli sloppy? What does he know of his worth, his mettle? What does anyone know, for that matter? Thorin says Kíli has behaved disgracefully. Mother says his actions are shameful. But they don't know the truth, only the feeble lies and excuses my brother provides. Only I see the extent those dark bruises go, only I see all the cuts and marks when Kíli changes into his nightshirt. These so-called "matches" he's been mysteriously committed to mean something terrible. I knew it even before I got him to confide in me last night, when he lay on his stomach sobbing after mother's swift but stern chastisement._

_Oh, how I want to rip his tormentors limb-from-limb, but the little idiot won't let me! "I have to do this my way," is all he says. It leaves me feeling helpless… and I hate f__eeling helpless. It makes me _so_ angry._

"_Enough of this!" Dwalin suddenly bellows, knocking me sharply into cold, crisp reality. He fixes me with a steady stare, his eyes dark but not with anger. He knows there is something wrong. A full minute passes before he takes a deep breath and adjusts his weapon. "Alright, little lion, attack me!" he roars, "Hit me with your best! C'mon!"_

_Something in his manner ignites the flame within me and I immediately comply with his order. I let loose on him completely, striking him with my blunt sword as swiftly and strong as I possibly can, confident in the knowledge that I can't hurt my trusted instructor with even my best shots. Eventually I grab my blade with both hands and hack away in a blind rage, yelling incoherent battle cries and some curses at the top of my lungs. Style and method are thrown by the wayside as I simply throw all my fury into my attacks, uselessly clashing with Dwalin's sword again and again. It is no matter, however. I'm not trying to win, and I know what Dwalin is trying to do. He's simply popped the bottle cork and is allowing its seething contents to explode and fizz away._

_I fight, and fight, and fight. Finally I realize the ground has reached up to meet me and I sink to my knees, exhausted and totally spent. Tears I hadn't known I possessed spill over my cheeks; I shudder, feeling as though a painful weight shifted off my chest. The weight is there but it's been broken up, shattered to ground meal and pushed aside. Dwalin crouches into my vision._

"_Feelin' better, laddie?" he murmurs._

_A great sigh escapes me, and I nod weakly. He offers me his tattooed hand and I take it gladly; he pulls me to my feet. He gazes at me thoughtfully for a long time while I collect myself, and afterwards he concludes the session complete for the day._

I am not a small child anymore. If I want to tear someone limb-from-limb, I can do it. If I want to hurt someone as strong as Dwalin, there is a chance that I could do it. For all intents and purposes, I possess the ability to end a life.

Despite practical knowledge and understanding, up until now I have managed to retain a sense of security in the thought that my elders are invincible. That youthful illusion has just been shattered before my very eyes. With the realization that I, a mere dwarfling of limited experience, can beat a warrior as mighty as Dwalin, I am forced to realize that he is not infallible, and I am not helpless. Neither can I be as reliant on those stronger than I to protect me; I have a responsibility to take care of myself.

The world suddenly seems a lot more dangerous, and a cold shiver runs through me, rattling my nerves and settling in my bones. My happy, naïve little brother hangs on me cheerfully, and I suddenly feel so defenseless against the evils lurking out in the world, waiting for the both of us.

* * *

Kíli retires for the night, feeling unusually tired. He falls asleep within minutes but I am far from ready to turn in; a fruitless search for my whittling knife eventually leads me to the great room, where I am certain I last used it. It is warm in the halls so the large hearth remains cold, but candles are lit all across the mantelpiece, bathing the dark room with gentle circles of light. Pipe smoke rises steadily from Thorin's favorite sofa chair, filling the air with a heavy scent.

"Evening, Uncle," I greet him politely, approaching from behind. He peers around the wing of his chair at me with the ghost of a smile, settling back as I come around into view. "You were missed at dinner."

"Hmm; I doubt that," he grunts around the pipe in his mouth. "I think your mother was relieved that I wasn't underfoot for once."

Thorin is rarely absent at dinner. Sometimes he has to work late on orders at the forge, but in those cases he normally will sup with us and return to work afterwards. I am tempted to ask him his reason for not joining the family this time, but Mother's somewhat testy mood indicates they may have had some sort of an argument and I know better than to pry into their affairs. Instead I offer him a sly smile.

"There _was_ more food to go around," I quip innocently, "Even Kíli left the table without complaining."

My uncle doesn't smile; he looks away, sobering further, and takes a long puff on his pipe. I wince slightly; I should know better than to joke about there being enough to eat. There have been enough times growing up where the table was more bare than it should be, and Mahal knows Thorin and my mother both have suffered hunger in their youth. I mentally kick myself for my stupidity and despondently turn away to search the mantelpiece for my knife.

"Dwalin tells me that you did exceptionally well today," he says after a moment of silence. "He says that you managed to beat him in a match, in two-handed combat, no less." There is the unmistakable note of pride in his voice, with a trace of amusement.

I perk up at his approval, and when my hand closes around my knife it is with a heart-felt smile that I speak. "Yes sir, I did."

"Well done," he says firmly. When I turn around he appears inscrutable as ever to the untrained eye, but I can see the way his eyes crinkle around the edges with pleasure, the slight turning of his mouth. He is well pleased. "Dwalin said you were rather quiet about the affair. You should have rubbed it in a bit; the old geezer could've been taken down a few notches."

I can't help but bark a laugh of surprise at his sudden show of good humor. "I-I don't think that would've been right, Uncle. It is enough that I won."

He smiles outright at that comment, and my heart warms at the sight. Thorin smiles all too infrequently these days. "You are modest," he replies quietly. "It is good." He continues to eye me thoughtfully, pausing to think before continuing. "And the swords—are you considering making a twin pair your chief choice? You seem to favor them as of late."

Sighing, I nervously glance down at my whittling knife and fiddle with it slightly. "I'm not sure. I had always thought that I would make the war hammer my primary, like my father, since he passed his hammer to me. I enjoy wielding it, but ever since Dwalin had me start in with twin swords I've been unsure." I raise my head, frowning uncertainly, almost afraid to admit my thoughts. "It seems to feel more natural in my hands, though I have just begun learning."

"Dwalin has said the same," Thorin says, nodding in agreement. "Do what feels right to you, Fíli, not simply what you think you _ought_ to." He seems to consider something deeply, then raises his piercing blue eyes and holds my gaze. "Your father would not be slighted. You honor him no matter your choice."

A slight weight slips from my shoulders at his words and I sigh deeply. I didn't realize how badly I needed to hear it from my uncle's lips. Doubt remains, but a confirmation from my uncle is a fair substitute to that which I can never receive from one who is long gone.

"You have been troubled as of late, lad," Uncle says suddenly, rough voice softened. "What is on your heart?"

I startle at the question. "M'fine," I reply automatically, even before I have a chance to think about my answer. After a pause, I slip my knife into my pocket and clasp my hands gravely behind my back. "There's nothing, really." My guardian's searching look makes me uneasy and my gaze falters. "I guess… I'm just thoughtful. I don't know."

There are a thousand things I'd like to say to Uncle Thorin, thoughts to discuss and a mind full of doubt to confess, but all words escape me. It is like something inside of me clamps shut at his question and refuses to budge. _Just leave me be,_ whispers my heart. The dwarf grows solemn at my silence and sticks his pipe back between his teeth with a sigh.

"It seems that _you _have been disturbed, Uncle," I blurt out without thinking. "And it worries me."

Thorin raises his eyes to mine briefly before he returns to staring off into space. "Never you mind, Fíli," he murmurs. "Do not concern yourself. My troubles are my own."

I recognize the brooding mood that my uncle has slipped into and I know it is best to leave him be. I quietly bid him goodnight, but as I leave him I can't help feeling that we both have been left feeling dissatisfied.

* * *

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

_A/N: Feed the handsome canary and his author! We're always hungry for feedback! Fíli's flashback is a blatant reference to the events of "A Private Little War". I couldn't resist throwing it in there._

_Sadly, I fly back to university on Sunday the 19__th__. From now on, updating will be extremely difficult with 18 credit hours plus archi studio, but I will do my best!_

_To my lovely guest reviewer __**Death to elves: **__I apologize for not addressing you in the previous chapter! You asked about Fíli and Kíli's father: yes, Tolkien never refers to him by name. As a result, writers have had to invent their own name(s) for the character. I have seen a number of convincing choices—I invented "Jóli", which my friend __**Italian Hobbit**_ _accepted as head-canon (and anyone else is free to use it as well). I must say that I am thrilled to hear how much you love "A Private Little War"! I can't tell you how happy it makes me when someone tells me how they've gone back to read and reread my work… it's so wonderful! Of course, you can expect that I shall do my best to continue to "feed" you. :-)_


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